The Interment Net
by Runt Thunderbelch
Summary: The Patrician learns of Cut-Me-Own-Throat's plan to install the Internet on Discworld.   Inspired by Poke-it-with-a-Stick's "Drumknott Gets An iPad."


At the end of the latest story of Poke-it-with-a-Stick, "Drumknott Gets An iPad," Monsieur a-Stick poses the question, "... God, can you imagine what would happen if Vetinari encountered the internet?"

The answer is: Yes I can.

Disclaimer: I claim ownership neither of the Discworld nor of Mr. Poke-it-with-a-Stick.

The Interment Net

By

Runt Thunderbelch

Lord Vetinari picked up the next piece of paper on his desk, read it and frowned. The employment of grave diggers was up again this month, way up. That was a 300% increase in just three months. He searched through an adjacent stack of papers until he found the one he was looking for. Burials were down 4%. Why were more gravediggers needed to dig fewer graves?

Vetinari rang his silver bell.

"Sir?"

"Yes, Drumknott. Please inform the head of the Guild of Embalmers and Allied Trades that he has an appointment with me."

"Very good, sir."

Presumably the trade organization for embalmers, funeral directors, undertakers, gravediggers and all those unsung performers of the seventh work of mercy could explain this discrepancy. Lord Vetinari did not like discrepancies. They inevitably led to someone being thrown into his scorpion pit.

A few minutes later, Mortice Boxx came panting into the Oblong Office. "Pardon me, my lord. I just now realized that I have an appointment with you. Um, regarding what, if I may ask?"

"The employment of gravediggers."

"Oh that."

"Yes. Precisely that."

There was a long pause.

"I'm waiting."

"Um, where to begin? You undoubtedly remember the disaster which followed the introduction of inn-sewer-ants polly-seas?"

"Not a good place to begin, Mr. Boxx."

"Well, Mr. Dibbler realized that the main flaw was in placing ants within a sewer system."

"If I recall correctly, the main flaw was that half the city was burnt down."

"Mr. Dibbler said, 'Put the ants in metal tubing' he did."

"Ants in metal tubing?"

"Yes sir. You have a long metal tube with ants inside and a speaking horn. You shout into the horn . . ."

"I never shout, Mr. Boxx."

"Forgive me, my lord. The user shouts into the speaking horn. The ants inside hear the message, are given an address, and go scurrying off through the tube to deliver the message. It's very efficient."

"That explains just about everything . . . except for the gravediggers. Remember the gravediggers? You came here to explain the increase in gravedigger employment."

"Well, the gravediggers aren't digging graves. They are digging trenches for the interment net tubing."

"I see." Vetinari steepled his fingers. "Mr. Boxx, do you see any flaws with this business plan?"

"It's not my plan, your lordship. It's Dibbler's plan. I just supply the gravediggers."

"Ah yes." Vetinari rang his little bell.

Drumknott appeared. "Your lordship?"

"Arrange for my carriage, if you please. Mr. Boxx and I feel like a little sightseeing. And prepare a picnic basket of wine and cheese, will you?"

Drumknott looked out the window where a light rain was turning the air into mud. "Beautiful day for it, sir."

In moments, the black carriage of Anhk-Morpork's Patrician was clip-clopping and splish-splashing through the city streets. It pulled up near a construction site.

"Brie?" offered Lord Vetinari politely as he took out the picnic basket.

"Your lordship?" gulped Mortice Boxx.

"Our picnic, sir."

Boxx looked out the window at the rain, which was starting to fall much harder.

The Patrician shouted out the window. "Drumknott, come down from there immediately. Join us inside the carriage before you catch your death of cold."

His loyal servant pulled his oilskins up over his head. "This is fine, your lordship. I am enjoying the fresh air."

Mortice Boxx's shaking hand took the proffered plate of brie. "Thank you, your lordship." He wondered how he could gracefully withdraw and go to sit up beside Drumknott, where presumably it was safe. He heard a familiar voice speaking.

"Why is his lordship out in miserable weather like this?" Cut-Me-Own-Throat Dibbler had come over from the construction side and was speaking to Drumknott.

"Picnic, sir."

Vetinari swung open the door to his carriage. "Good afternoon, Mr. Dibbler. My, this is an unexpected pleasure. Join us, won't you?"

"Er . . . do I have a choice?"

"Of course, Mr. Dibbler. The city of is full of choices. Some good. Some disastrous."

Dibbler practically jumped into the carriage.

"We're having brie," the Patrician informed him. "And I believe Mr. Boxx was just about to open a bottle of wine."

"Er, sir, isn't it a little soggy for a picnic?"

Boxx was searching frantically under the seat for the wine and a corkscrew.

"So, Mr. Dibbler, you're planning on placing ants into metal tubes and having this little beasties scuttling hither, thither and yon beneath my city?"

"No, your lordship."

"No?" Vetinari glanced out carriage windows at the miserable, cold and dripping gravediggers who were installing metal tubing into the ground.

"Well, I was originally planning on using ants, but there was a problem. No vocal cords. The little buggers would get to where there needed to go but had no way of delivering the messages. So I've substituted crickets."

"Crickets? I see. Crickets have vocal cords?"

"Well no, my lord, but they can chirp. Then the listener needs merely decode what they're chirping."

"Oh."

Mr. Boxx was pouring three glasses of wine as if his life depended upon it.

"Is there a problem, my lord?"

"Do you hate me, Mr. Dibbler?"

"Hate you, my lord? Why, I wouldn't dare!"

"Do you have any idea how much money I spend each month on spies, informers, stool pigeons, betrayers, blabbermouths, canaries, tattlers and rats?"

"Um?"

"A considerable amount, Mr. Dibbler, considerable. But I must know what is going on in this city, Mr. Dibbler. For me to do my job effectively, I must know everything that goes on." The Patrician leaned back. "But now you want to create a city where crickets scurry through underground tubing carrying encoded messages? Messages that I know nothing about and, even if I did, won't be able to read?"

"But, but, but, my lord, think of the speed of these messages. Think of the improvement they'll make to commerce. And with every transaction, the guild involved will of course remit its traditional portion to you. It's all about freedom, my lord. The freer your people are, the more they'll prosper, and as a result, the more you'll prosper."

"Do you know what freedom is, Mr. Dibbler?"

"I beg your pardon? Freedom?"

"Freedom is something you give people whom you trust. Mr. Dibbler, do you trust the people of Anhk-Morpork?"

"Do I what, my lord?"

"I submit that, if the people of Ankh-Morpork were trustworthy, then they wouldn't need me. Excellent wine, by the way, Mr. Boxx. Thank you."

"It's . . . your . . . wine."

"Mr. Dibbler, you know what would set this meal off perfectly?

"Um, wine, cheese and uhhh, crackers?"

"Crackers would be nice but what would be even better are your famous meat pies which Commander Vimes is always raving about. Could you fetch some, please, one for each of us?"

"But my lord, I'm no longer in the meat pie business. I'm now in the interment net business."

"I fully understand, Mr. Dibbler. It's your choice, of course. My city of is full of choices. Some good. Some disastrous."

"Three meat pies coming right up, my lord!" Cut-Me-Own-Throat Dibbler jumped out of the carriage and hurried off through the rain. He stopped near the gravediggers, said something to them, and when he'd finished, they threw down their shovels and headed home.

The Patrician gazed out of the carriage window and sipped his wine. "It's a beautiful day, isn't it Mr. Boxx?"

Lightning flashed through the sky. The rain fell harder.

"Beautiful? How so, your lordship?"

"It's always a beautiful day when I need not throw anybody into my scorpion pit, wouldn't you say?"

THE END


End file.
